The Life of an Hourglass
by The Whispered Shadows
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Connor Kenway is really getting sick of the sympathy. Stuck in a foster home for half his life, diagnosed with brain cancer, he decided to take matters into his own hands for once. But after leaving for Vermont for one last goodbye, he comes across something that sends his final plans spiraling out of control, and puts him on a path he never thought possible.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except some characters I made up, but we'll get to that later)**

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Chapter One

Here's something you should probably know about me: I'm going to be dead in a month.

Well, okay. I may not be telling the entire truth. It could be two months, or three, or four. You never know! I have no real clue about the exact date. I _do_ know that the doctors concluded that there was nothing they could do to fix the lump of useless cells crowding my brain, even after months of chemo and radiation and clinical trials, ergo labeling me as "terminal," so the date's gotta be coming up pretty soon.

Which is depressing. How can it not be? There really are no bright sides to terminal cancer, maybe except the fact that I no longer have to endure puking my guts out, but in the long run, that doesn't really count. You know. Because I'm not really ready to die yet.

I had money saved up for college. I had a job. I had a family (ish?). I had a _plan_. But then the monster had to come and start chomping around upstairs, and my life up and went, and here I am, a seventeen-year-old with a nice little death sentence squatting alone in the woods, trying and failing to make fried eggs over a very lame fire.

Living the life.

A small sigh slips out of my lips and tangles into the breeze. It's gorgeous out for an October morning, the sun just starting to burn off the thin mist that had laced the ground a while ago. All around my pitiful campsite is wilderness—to my right is a little stream, my left a small clearing. I gnaw on the inside of my cheek and glance upwards. The trees, shivering in the wind, are at their peak right now. If Kane were here he'd be going berserk.

 _Oh my God, look at those elms. We could pick a couple leaves and check out the abscission cells on some of them, if only I brought my microscope, I told you I could've fit it . . ._

Just thinking about it makes a small smile spread over my face. But then that smile turns into a frown, and I mentally scold myself for thinking about it at all.

Kane is a fellow foster kid. He's nothing but a big ball of pudge and worry, and he's hardcore botany, but trees suit him just fine as well. He's also my best friend. Has been for about as long as I can remember.

We met about three years after the Home became my new home, when I was seven and he was six. His dad was a drunk, his mother too busy not being a mother, and one day social services decided to take him in after Daddy Dearest decided to see if his only son could bounce down the stairs as well as his favorite basketball (uh, the answer would be _no_ ). Kane was quiet and reserved, two traits that nearly every kid in the Home shared, but there was some aspect about him, some blissful carefree sense that he had that made me like him. He apparently thought I wasn't half bad, either.

Kane and I were close enough before, but when they found the monster he was the one who stuck by my side. All my other friends from the Home suddenly didn't know how to act around me. Was it okay to laugh? Should they smile? Would they offend me if they smiled? It was _so_ ridiculous. They ended up deciding that it was best if they just let me be, only talking when it was necessary, and every time we _did_ talk there _had_ to be a "I'm so sorry" thrown in there somewhere.

Kane, on the other hand, stuck by me the entire time. When I first told him about the diagnosis, I was sure he was going to start treating me like everyone else. _Woah, boy, better be careful around that Connor kid. He's got cancer so make sure you smother him with sympathy and don't make eye contact._ But instead, he said "Well, that explains why you're so stupid all the time."

Seriously. That still makes me laugh.

He sat by me through every round of chemo. Every doctor's appointment. Every clinical trial. When school became a no-go, he brought me homework and kept me updated. He still treated me like _me_ , which was such a relief sometimes I almost forgot about my death sentence. Almost.

I shake myself out of the memory, and even though the smile has worked its way back onto my face, my stomach twists uncomfortably. I take a sip from my thermos of hot chocolate, but the brown slush doesn't really act as a reassurance.

When he realizes I'm out here, that probably wouldn't sit well with him.

Sharp pops from the fire call for my attention. I set my thermos down next to me and grab my spatula, poking at my eggs. Another hiss from the fire sends sparks flying, and I wince a little.

I've never really been okay around fires since my mom died. _But lo and behold, here I am in the wilderness, camping, which does indeed require fire!_ Because that makes sense. But really, it's not like I start screaming when somebody decides to roast a marshmallow, or something. I just prefer to keep my fires as limited as possible. Not a big deal.

Unless, of course, they get a little too big. Last year, the week before school started, a couple guys in the Home held this huge bonfire in the backyard. (We had just torn down the old shed in the back, so we had wood pouring out of our ears.) I didn't think it would be terrible, but by the end of the night, I was huddled up beneath my sheets with my earbuds screwed in, playing music so loud I'm surprised I didn't burst an eardrum.

Which is weird. I know that there are situations that traumatize the brain in a way that they trigger responses even after the situation is over, but I don't even really remember that night very well. Just smoke and fire and . . . well, my mom. Only her face. I mean, I was only four. But still. You'd think that I'd be able to remember something that, well, _traumatizing_.

Not that I'm complaining. Between you and me, I'm perfectly fine with that. I'd rather _not_ remember my mother burning to death.

The monster is a big part of it too. After munching around for a while, it decided to take a little nibble on my hippocampus, but considering everything, it didn't cause that much damage. No severe memory issues, so that's good. I can just say I've got a really, really selective forgetfulness.

But maybe it's also because I remember the foster home process more than anything. _Those_ memories are still fresh in my mind. Bouncing around like some useless thing that no one knew what to do with, social security workers scrambling to try and find any relatives to take me in . . . Unsurprisingly, they never managed to contact my dad, wherever the hell he is, so I was put up for adoption and was told to just sit quietly until someone decided to call me theirs.

Quite the childhood.

I start scooping my eggs into one metal mug when, suddenly, there's a melodic chirp from one of my bag's pockets. I bring a hand back, unzip it, and fish out my phone, which is ablaze with the name "Kane" in big, blocky letters.

Oh crap. Speak of the devil.

White Mountain Forest has a decent amount of cell coverage in the beginning, but where I'm planning on going there's not enough for a single tweet. _I shouldn't've even brought my phone_ , I think.

I'm really not in the mood for a lecture right now, so I stare at the screen, uncertain. My finger hovers over the red "ignore" button for two whole rings. It'd be so easy. But then again, I would never hear the end of it. So I smash my thumb against the green and bring the phone up to my ear.

"Hello?"

"Connor, what the hell?" _Oh boy_. "A note? Really? That's it?"

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek again. "I wanted to go hiking—"

"In another _state_? So you just _went_? And you thought a note would clear everything up?"

I roll my eyes. "It's not like I haven't done this before. It's not some huge deal."

Through the crackle of the phone's static, I can practically hear the steam shooting out of his ears. "This is a big deal, and you know it."

"I told you exactly where I was," I snap into the mouthpiece.

"Yeah, that's not exactly the problem," he hisses back. I bite so hard into my cheek the taste of old pennies floods into my mouth.

"Well, what do you want me to do? Come home? In case you didn't know, terminal illness is the same in Vermont as it is in Massachusetts."

Kane sighs. "I know, but—"

"Why shouldn't I be out here? If I drop dead in the woods, how would it be different if I dropped dead by you?" _Jeez._ As soon as I get the words out, I flinch. The hot anger that rushed through me is gone now, replaced with thick guilt. What am I doing? Kane's just being Kane. Concerned, worried Kane. "Sorry. I didn't mean that."

He doesn't skip a beat. "I know, you retard. I just wish you'd stop being so rebellious all of a sudden. Your teen angst is making me exhausted."

I grin, then shove some eggs into my mouth, relieved. "I promise I'll call after I set up camp tonight, okay? My teen angst will be under control by then."

He laughs. "K. But maybe you should call Ella instead of me. She nearly shit herself when she read your note."

Oh man. Ella's one of our foster parents, a thin forty-six-year-old who worries more than Kane. She's nice enough, but half the time her pessimism is a little too depressing. "I'll make sure that happens," I tell him.

I can practically see him nodding. "Please do. She almost made us band together and create a search party for you. Since you're in Vermont, I'm glad she didn't go through with that." We laugh together, a sound that comes surprisingly easily right now. After a moment, Kane grows serious. "Connor?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me you'll be careful, okay?"

For a moment, I'm silent. I feel like I should tell him, but I know right now isn't the right moment. There'll be others. _There_ will _be others_. "I promise," I say into the mouthpiece. "I'll be home in three days, okay?" The last part feels wrong, saying it. The words are like razors against my throat.

"Okay. Chat later," he responds.

"Bye." I take the phone away from my ear and click off the chat, then slide it back into my bag. My appetite is gone, the eggs tasting like nothing but ash in my mouth. I set the metal cup down by my thermos. Then I listen to the breeze for a while, pressing my palms against my eyes. I can feel one of my headaches coming on. Great.

Dread twists my stomach over and furs on my tongue, but I force myself to swallow it. This is right. Right? Am I making the right choice?

One of my hands goes to my neck and tugs on the pendant there. It's nothing super special, really, just a battered wooden circle with two rings of bronze and fake gold. There are weird symbols carved into the wood on the inner circle, and the fake gold part is molded into a little snake looking thing. It all hangs on a thin strip of leather. Mom gave it to me . . . I dunno, a long time ago.

The back of my eyes pounds with the headache, but the pain is nothing more than a dull throb. I glance at my watch. Better get going, if I want to make it to camp by nightfall.

I force myself to polish off the hot chocolate, and I'm just starting on the eggs when I see the dog bound out of the woods.

I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. It's a German Shepard, no doubt, with brown eyes so dark they're almost black. It stares at me through the bushes with such an intensity the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. What was that thing with dogs? You really shouldn't make eye contact if they're acting aggressive? Well, too late for that.

I'm just thinking about how screwed I am when the man comes jogging out of nowhere.

He looks like he's in his thirties or so, with black hair that's thin towards the front but thick towards the back, and a creepy-ass moustache. Seriously. That thing is worthy of a pedophilic status. He's got on a pair of jeans, hiking boots, and a North Face jacket, which is a look that doesn't really match him. He seems like one of the guys whose casual clothing is a suit. I don't know why, but he just has that air around him. He whistles, and without hesitation the dog settles down onto its belly and starts panting.

The man continues walking over to me. For some reason, I feel my muscles tense more. He's smiling, but I feel like something's off. "Sorry about that," he laughs once he's close enough. He crouches down by his dog—obviously it must be his—and scratches it behind the ears. "I guess Daisy smelled the eggs and couldn't resist."

I don't know how to react. The eggs that had been on my fork had splattered onto the ground long ago, so now I'm just sitting here, staring at the man, holding an empty fork an inch from my mouth. I set down my eggs and get to my feet.

It's not uncommon to meet fellow hikers out here. But maybe the whole dog thing really freaked me out, because something feels really, really wrong here.

The man still smiles at me, the expression making the skin around his eyes crinkle. His eyes, I notice, are a weird color. They're grey, but it's not like a normal grey. It's like they were once a color but something sucked all of the pigment out of them. "Really, I'm sorry about that. She's normally pretty good about food." He laughs again, so I force myself to swallow and smile at him.

"No worries," I say.

He rises from his crouch and walks towards me, then holds out an arm. "Charles Lee. And you've already met Daisy here."

I grab his hand. We shake. "Connor."

"Nice to meet you, Connor."

I nod back at him, not really sure what else I should say. Thank you for calling your dog off so it wouldn't attack me for eggs? I scratch the back of my neck.

"I-uh. . . I have some more eggs if you'd like?"

He makes a face and rubs his chin. "You know, that would be wonderful, if that's okay with you. I've got a long way to hike today and some protein would be greatly appreciated."

I nod again. I don't know why I feel so uncomfortable around him, but I'm glad I have something to do instead of stand here awkwardly. Shooting his dog a glance, I go back over to my pack and get the last of the eggs from the carton, then crack them over the pan.

"So," Charles grunts as he sits down on the opposite side of the fire. "What's a kid like you doing out here?"

I weigh my options for an answer. Lying is the obvious choice, but what lie? "I had a day off from school," I say over the sizzling. I glance up to meet his gaze over the fire. "So my parents let me go—"

I stop mid sentence.

Because that's when I spot it, right underneath his jacket.

A gun.

* * *

 **Hello all! So. This is my very first fanfiction, and I'll try not to bore you all too much with an entire novel of authors notes, but I must say . . . this is nice . . . Okay, but fo realsies peeps. For one, this story will be VERY different from the original ACIII story line, in case you couldn't already tell. So just a warning for those of you that want a more traditional kinda thing. For two, if you even read one word of my story, even just the title, THANK YOU. I appreciate you! But really. Thank you for reading this, and I really do hope you like it. Comment, like, follow, whatever, but I hope I can provide you guys with a new take on a great game :)**

 **Stay awesome!**

 **-TWS**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except some characters I made up, but we'll get to that later)**

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Once, a couple years ago, Ella took all of us to an ice skating rink as a Christmas present. It was absolutely hilarious—ninety-nine percent of us didn't have a clue how to go more than five feet without faceplanting. I remember there was this one time where I thought I was finally getting the hang of things; I managed to shimmy my way off the wall, eventually drifting to the middle of the rink, but then my feet skidded and my balance toppled and I fell straight on my back.

The impact left me breathless, struggling to pull air in.

That's how I feel now.

The hunk of black tucked by his chest is there and then gone, so quick you'd almost think it didn't even exist. Like it was just a shadow. But by the adrenaline that's gushed into my bloodstream, the way my stomach goes cold like I just swallowed a block of ice, I know it's there. I'm not stupid. I know what a gun looks like.

 _Stay calm,_ I tell myself. _Plenty of people have guns up here for protection. Bears, wolves, other things they might want to keep away. Heck, look in your own backpack, you idiot._

Yeah, but that's a different story. Entirely.

I don't allow myself to miss a beat. I go back to the egg shells and toss them in my garbage bag. Wipe my hands on my napkin. Grab my spatula. Look back at Charles. "—they let me go hiking for a while."

He's scratching Daisy's ears again, making the small giant pant with loud happiness. He's not even looking at me. A small smile is still painted on his face.

"That's pretty nice of your parents," he says to Daisy.

I try to swallow past the lump in my throat and nod. "Yeah, I'm glad they let me do it."

"You come here before?" Now he shifts his gaze over to me, curiosity brimming in those colorless eyes. I feel like he can see my chest jerking up and down as my heart clashes against my ribs.

"Yeah, it was one of my favorite spots growing up." Don't look at his jacket. Don't seem suddenly terrified. Look down and try and cook the eggs without burning them.

I see him nod out of the corner of my eye. "Don't blame you. It's pretty beautiful up here."

I jerk my chin up in a quick nod back at him, then continue focusing on the eggs. For a moment, we're both quiet, swallowed up by the sound of the leaves shivering. I tug at my jacket. The wind is shifting from silky cool to a icy bite, and I think about flipping my hood over my ears.

"So, why didn't your parents come out here with you?" Brown eyes flick up to meet colorless ones, and for the first time, I find myself hesitating.

I don't like where this is going. All these questions about me, it's too much. I want to ask him to leave, but as I'm wracking my brain, I can't figure out a nonchalant way to do that. _Hey, you've got a really creepy moustache and weird eyes and all of these questions are making me uncomfortable, and I literally saw a gun beneath your jacket, so I know I offered you eggs, but could you please take your huge beast of a dog and depart my good sir?_

Yes. Do that, Connor. I'm sure it would end well. Better yet, why not just scream stranger danger in his face, then take off running?

For all I know, he could just be a decent human being and acting friendly—heck, he's smiling enough—but the whole gun thing throws me off.

 _Protection_ , I attempt to convince myself. _He's worried about the wild animals. It's not a huge deal_.

But then there's that little alarm bell echoing in the back of my head. He's got a dog. German Shepard. Also not a big deal, because duh, plenty of people have dogs, but something isn't fitting right.

I don't ignore the alarm bell, but I don't tell Charles to get away either. I decide that the best thing to do is just act like a normal teenager for once (ha-ha), give him his eggs, then pack up. _Just answer his questions, and soon enough you'll be on your way_. "My mom absolutely hates camping, and my dad's off on a business trip."

For a second, I consider adding that my father works for GE (it's what Kane's dad did before he went all pro-basketball player on his son), but that seems like it would be too much information with the hesitation, ergo only adding to the obviousness of my lie.

Charles nods like he knows where I'm coming from. His lips part with the beginnings of words, but I smother them before they can form in the air. Enough about me. "What about you?" I ask lightly.

He stares at me for a moment, unsmiling, then allows himself to plaster another laugh between us. There's something different about this one compared to the others. It's heavier, stickier, like it was forced.

"My wife would rather be sleeping, and the kids wouldn't come out here if I offered them all the candy in the world." He shakes his head, chuckling. "Good thing I have Daisy here, otherwise it'd be just me."

Wife and kids. He's got a family. That should be an instant relaxer, it should make me trust him.

But it doesn't, because I know he's lying. And he knows I'm giving him crap, too.

Two strangers sitting over a very lame fire, both in the woods for reasons they're not telling, knowing but not acknowledging the fact that the first conversation they've had with each other was laced with anything but the truth.

I don't know exactly how he realized I'm bull-shitting him, but now, stuck in some kind of staring contest with him, I can't deny it. Maybe it was my hesitation. Or just the fact that I'm a young man who's taking a three day camping trip in the middle of a school week. But I see it in his face, the way his lips curl, the way his eyes shimmer with something arrogant and obvious, as if he were saying _Nice try, kid, but I know what you're up to_.

Strange enough, something makes me think that he lied just to show that he knows I'm being dishonest. Like he's patronizing me, and doing it in an obvious way that isn't obvious.

Cackling fire. Hissing eggs. Huffing dog. Silent liars.

Looks like his meal is done.

Casually, I scoop his eggs into another one of my metal mugs, poke a fork in it, then pass it over to him. He smiles again. _Thanks._

"So why are you really out here, Connor?"

The words hover in the air for an unnaturally long moment, icy as the wind. They make my blood freeze and my breath hitch in my throat. The same dread that drenched me when I talked to Kane resurfaces.

He says them before he even got one bite of eggs in his mouth. Funnily enough, the first thought that skirts through the numbness is _How rude_.

Then my little alarm bell pipes up. _Lie_ it squeaks at me. _Lie lie lie lie keep lying and then leave_.

But I can't. I want to tell someone. I want to tell Kane, but now, sitting here, with a stranger, it seems like venting to this man would make it so much easier because someone else would know and I wouldn't be alone and they wouldn't _know_. They wouldn't know my story, so how could it hurt?

It sounds _so tempting_. I want to.

But then again, telling someone I don't even trust, a ghost of someone who could be, it would be the coward's way.

I know that. I don't know how to explain it, but I do. I feel it in my heart, throbbing painfully in my bloodstream, and for the first time in a long time, it seems like I'm a child again.

Instead of answering, I don't look at him. Instead of crafting a sentence, I reach underneath the neckline of my shirt and tug out my pendant. Worried fingers skim over its surface, which is already worn from years of anxiety.

I could tell him. I could. But it wouldn't be right.

My lips split, and I turn back to the strange man without any color in his eyes, and I don't know what to say.

He does, though, because when I look back at him, he has four words that sound sharp and crisp, like they were planned out in front of a mirror for many, many hours.

"Give me the necklace."

* * *

 **Hey guys! So, it's been waaaaaaaay too long, and I apologize for that. I nearly was ripping out my hair for three weeks. And to make matters worse, this chapter's a little short, but I promise you, things are about to get serious, and I plan to organize my updating schedule in a much nicer way ;) If you reading this, I'd like to quickly fall on my knees and worship you for a second or two, and I'd also like to give a quick shout out to sithkittye! First comment, and I really appreciate it.** **Hope you guys liked it. I'll see you soon, I promise!**

 **Stay cool like cool beans, yo.**

 **-TWS**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except some characters I made up, but we'll get to that later)**

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Chapter Three

I stare at him.

"Give me the necklace," he repeats. No warmth is in his voice now. No cheery fake smile. The iciness of his eyes has trickled down into his face, into the creases where his lips used to tilt upwards.

I just stare at him. My hand frozen on my pendant, clutching the old wood so hard I feel a small creak of distress. My mouth forming tiny, surprised O.

"What?"

His voice tightens. I can literally see it tighten—the muscles beneath the neckline of his jacket constrict. " _Give_ it to me, boy."

 _Woah, there. Boy?_

I will myself to crack the ice holding me in place, because something is very, very wrong, and I need to _get out of here_. A disgusting crawling sensation is creeping over the back of my neck. My heart thuds inside my chest.

"W-why?"

That seems to spark something. The crappy tin cup full of crappy eggs that was in his hand a second ago is gone, launched and landing among the some dying bushes with a clatter as loud as a bomb. Daisy leaps to her feet and lets loose a vicious bark. I jolt out of my stupor, my heart jamming itself into my throat, my body jerking backwards a couple inches out of instinct.

Out of nowhere, I'm staring at nothing but a single, dark eye. It's smaller than I expected it to be. Just a black dot against the late green, the beginnings of oranges and reds and browns. But it filters lead into my blood.

His gun. Pulled out of his jacket and aimed right between my eyes before I could even blink.

His voice is something from a childhood nightmare. " _Give it to me!_ "

"Woah, woah, woah, okay!" I breathe. My hands are raised up in mock surrender now, my pendant resting silently just below the hollow of my neck. Colorless eyes boring into brown ones boring into a black one.

"Okay," I repeat. "Okay." I don't have any fricking clue why I keep saying that. _Just keep him talking or busy or something and get the hell_ out _of here._

Thank you, little voice in my head. I _really_ needed that blatantly obvious information. But how 'bout you stop saying _let's get out of here_ because it's getting really repetitive and _I know that I better get the hell out of here SINCE THERE IS A DAMN GUN AIMED AT MY BRAIN?!_

Time to update my bio: Connor Kenway, seventeen-year-old cancer patient who's also 1000% crack-pot crazy and who also is about to die, not because of the friendly little monster in his head, but because a bullet is going to decide to snuggle up right there next to it.

 _Well, not like the plan was any different._

Holy shit, I _cannot_ do this right now.

"Okay," I say to him one more time. Black eye, colorless ones. Which one to look at? I bank on the colorless ones, trying to study what's going on in them.

Ice cracking. That's what's happening in them.

"I'll g-give it to you," I stammer. My voice is raspy, almost too quiet to hear, so I clear my throat and try again. "I'll give it to you."

No change. Ice splinters and spirals. Ice drips from his mouth. Ice seeps into my bones. He opens his icy line of a mouth and lets some icy words trickle out.

"I'm not going to ask you again. _Now_." Pretty sure if he had a revolver, now would be the perfect time to click back the hammer. I even hear it in my head. _Click. You're gonna die, boy._

And suddenly, I'm very, very angry.

With myself. With this stranger who thinks they can decide whether I live or die.

That's _my_ decision. Ever since the monster popped up, I've vowed that I will _not_ let it decide when I go. Only I can do that. That's _my_ choice. That's my last word, my last fight, to prove that I never stopped fighting.

And that's what I came out here to do. I had made my choice. I had it planned. As soon as the doctors dropped the hammer, I knew what I was going to do.

I was ready to say goodbye.

But not this way. Not with this asshole thinking he can move the time forward just for some goddamn _necklace_.

I was going to blab to him. This bastard I didn't even know. I was actually thinking about _telling_ him. Telling him before I even told Kane. And now he's pointing a gun at my head. Throwing me to the dirt like nearly every other adult I've met in my life.

Rage surges through me. Melts the ice in my bones, roars in my ears. If he thinks he has the upper hand, he's. Wrong.

I don't let any of this show on my face. _Any_ of it. I keep the expression of fear plastered on, wear a mask of terror. I'm actually really good at wearing masks. Lots of practice. "Right now, yeah, okay. I'm getting it."

Gently, as if I were trying not to startle an animal (warning bell: Daisy isn't looking exactly friendly anymore either), I bring my left hand up and lace my fingers around the worried wood. The leather band rubs against my neck, comforting me.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Leather, wood, gold, black. Make a choice, Connor.

He breaks the staring contest we've been keeping up for the last seconds that feel like minutes that feel like years; just a quick flick, down towards my pendant, a flash of greed.

Make a choice.

His eyes snap back to mine, and they realize what I'm going to do a second too late.

My hands rush up towards the metal in his hands. I knock the gun upwards, bowing my head as I do so, getting myself out of his line of fire. He squeezes the trigger—an explosion ruptures the stillness of the forest, splits the air above my head in two, and my ears scream in protest and for a millionth of a second, I can't hear anything.

 _C'mon, get out of here._

He's strong. And I mean _really_ strong. Buff-bodybuilder strong. I don't even try to wrestle the gun from his grasp, but instead twist around and grab his neckline.

I want to try and yank his jacket up over his head so he can't see, push him into the little stream, grab my backpack and split as fast as possible. It seemed pretty decent. Clean and simple.

But my element of surprise has run out. And my plan doesn't really go how I thought it would've gone.

The unnaturally buff-bodybuilder strong ice creature grabs my wrist and twists it at an incredibly painful angle. I turn with it, trying to avoid breaking any bones, and then swivel my arm the other way entirely; something I learned when Kane and I battled when we were younger. His grip on my wrist falters, and I wrench my arm from his hands.

My own momentum sends me tumbling backwards. So far, even, that I trip over something (my goddamn backpack) and sprawl flat onto my back.

 _Get up get up get up get up!_ Adrenaline is gushing through me, filling absolutely every part of my body, making my teeth buzz with energy. I snap into a sitting position, looking desperately for a weapon. Why the hell did I leave my gun strapped in my backpack?

Backpack.

My eyes snap to the glorious lump of fraying grey cloth resting beneath my boots, and my hands lunge forward. They yank at the fabric and try to snatch the tiny black zipper. I can't grab it right, can't even get my fingers around it. Panicking about not being able to find the fricking zipper, and then panicking because I'm panicking at the exact wrong moment to panic, I look up.

Charles' icy facade has melted now, replaced with a gruesome kind of anger. His mouth twists like he just swallowed a whole lemon. His colorless eyes are scrunched with something incredibly sinister. He takes two strides towards me, and the gun is back out, and more panic floods through my body and there's that black eye again . . .

Screw my gun.

I slide right back onto my back (ha) and sweep my feet underneath his. My shins sing with pain as soon as they make contact with his ankles, but he comes crashing down, so I don't even really feel it.

 _Get up get up get up get up_. I scramble to my feet and snatch my backpack, look left, right. Left, clearing, right, stream. Trees stretching up to the sky. _Cover. Woods._

All these thoughts are jumbling through my mind as fast as the speed of light. My feet take off before my brain does, and suddenly colors are flying past me as I weave in and out of the trees, leaping over the bushes and the shrubs and the sticks that reach greedily at my ankles. I clumsily throw my arms through the straps of my backpack.

Some stray thorns tear at my jeans, but I keep running as if I suddenly discovered what running was and I loved it.

I expect to hear a gunshot. Why isn't there a gunshot? In the movies, there's a gunshot. It just misses me and I turn the corner and sprint away, miraculously escaping unscathed, breathless but triumphant.

Instead there's nothing but high, sharp whistle.

The crashing the chases me is too fast for it to be him. It can't be him. He can't be Usain-Bolt- _and_ -buff-bodybuilder. I zig zag, pushing myself faster than I ever thought possible, but the crashing continues, growing closer and closer and closer. And then it hits me.

Oh my God, I'm such an idiot.

The dog, the dog, the _damn dog . . ._

I twist around, eyes wide and filled with alarm. _Tree_. I start sprinting towards the closest one with branches low enough, but my second's' hesitation was too much. Daisy is there before I can even make it three steps.

I feel her before I see her; razor-sharp teeth sinking into the flesh of my forearm. I scream, surprised and in pain, spinning around to confront the German Shepherd. My free hand goes to her jaw. My fingers fumble in a hopeless attempt to pry her teeth out. She growls, jerking her head back and forth as if my arm were a chew toy. I jerk with it. There's this awful, awful ripping sensation beneath my skin. Blood gushes down my arm. Makes my other hand slick and sticky and warm.

 _Oh my God oh my God._ Terror and hysteria mix with the adrenaline, and I take my free hand, form a fist, and bring it down as hard as I can on her nose.

She lets go instantly. Whimpers. I stagger backwards, stunned, terrified. _What the hell is happening? Why are they trying to_ kill _me?_

 _Who gives a shit just GET OUT OF-_

Should've listened to that damn voice in my head.

The shot is as crisp and clear as the sky above me, as the leaves beneath me. It almost echoes through the forest.

Something clubs me in my knee so hard I tumble to the ground. The leaves beneath me crackle underneath my weight. For a moment I just lay there on my stomach, breathing in the damp smell of the forest floor, my lungs working like crazy, my heart going faster than a hummingbird's, mind numb.

Then a single thought breaks the fog.

 _Holy shit. I just got shot._

The pain is consuming, splashes down my entire leg like water, makes the very tips of my toes ache. The pain is non-existent, like I banged my knee on a corner, but from the waist down it was asleep so I didn't notice. I just got shot. I feel it and I don't. I register it and I don't.

Slowly, I press my palms into the dirt. It's cold from the morning, sticks between my fingers. It feels good. I use it as leverage to roll myself over onto my back, and then I'm staring up at the sky, which is a beautiful beautiful blue, the kind of chilly blue only mornings in October can produce, the kind that's rich and deep. I actually stare at it for a little bit, consumed by the blankness, of how it's just never ending blue without a puff of white in sight.

But then the thinking part of my brain smacks me back into reality.

 _Okay. Blood loss. . . cover blood loss. . ._ I think about ripping the hem of my t-shirt off, but that would mean I'd have to take off my sweatshirt and rip my shirt and tie it. Which would all take way too long. I'm not staying here anymore. Because (this is your cue, brain) I NEED TO GET AWAY.

Laying awkwardly on top of my backpack, I grunt and push myself up onto my elbows. My head jerks back and forth, my eyes searching wildly for him.

I don't even see Daisy. Nothing but the trees, exploding in reds and oranges and yellows and greens, their trunks forming a maze.

A tiny, tiny hopeful voice in the back of my mind squeaks, _Maybe they left?_ and then that thinking part of my brain, the one that actually knows what's going on, snaps back, _Yeah, probably to go get an ambulance_ , _dipshit_.

My stomach lurches and I swallow hard.

I don't want to look at my knee. I can sure as hell feel it though, throbbing horribly every time my heart squeezes, but looking at it won't do me any good now. That's what I'm telling myself. That's what you're supposed to tell yourself, right? Worry about it later. The illusion that you've got this in control.

All I need to know is if I can stand on it. If I can get back to the car . . . but oh my God I'm a full day's hike away, and now I don't even know where my camp is . . . and there's the psychopath guy and his psychopath dog . . .

 _What do I do what do I do shit shit shit . . ._

Still panicky, I pull myself up into a sitting position. Deep breaths. I force myself to fill my lungs completely and then empty them until there's nothing left. The breeze is cool against the dampness of my forehead, and some of my hair sticks to my skin.

Shakily, I yank my backpack off of my shoulders and plop it in my lap. My fingers finally find that shitty zipper, and I tug it open so hard I hear a small _rrrriiiiip_. Whoops.

I plunge my hand into the depths of my pack, my eyes whizzing around the maze of trees. Left, right, forward, behind. My fingers sift past the textures of extra clothes and granola bar wrappers until there's that worn leather I know so well. My leg pounds. My arm throbs.

I jerk the Glock out of my backpack, unclip the holster, and click the safety off. The rage I felt before has returned, and I use it to push myself to my good knee, and then to my leg. _Where are you?_ I shuffle to the tree I had been planning to climb and lean on it heavily, using it as a support. My hands, which clutch the Glock, are extended out in front of me. My finger rests on the trigger.

Left, right, forward, behind. I swivel where I stand on my good leg, looking for any flash of black or grey. Nothing. My breaths come out hard and fast.

"Come on, you piece of shit!" I scream.

More rustling. The snapping of a twig, the crunch of leaves. For some unnecessary reason, I think of when Kane and I played Call of Duty when it first came out, and I had no idea what I was doing, and nine times out of ten I ended up killing my team members rather than the people I was supposed to kill.

Weird, how now I'm holding an actual gun in my hand, and I'm not shooting at a computer animation.

But now, I thinking back on the memory, I hear Kane's voice in my head.

 _No,_ that's _to shoot. But don't shoot at me. You see the guy who's shooting at you?_ That's _who you shoot at. Oh my God, Connor, that's ME. STOP SHOOTING. I wasn't shooting at you THAT GUY WAS._

How do you tell who the enemy is, Connor?

He's the one shooting at you.

Daisy pounces out of the bushes and lands to my right. I swivel around and squeeze the trigger without really aiming, and the gunshot slices through the forest sounds, and Daisy yips and flattens herself against the ground, trembling.

I only have time to register that the bullet must've grazed her ear, which is now torn and dripping crimson, before I feel him tackle me in the back.

We go tumbling down. Him on top, me on bottom. I try to shift to the side, but his knees land on my back and all of the breath whooshes out of my lungs. He slams my hand until my fingers loosen on the Glock, and suddenly it's gone from my hands.

Struggling beneath his weight, I feel myself get thrown onto my back.

His face is close, close enough that I can see the little splinters of ice in his eyes, which seem to be bottomless. I squirm underneath him—his knees pin down my shoulders.

He smiles at me.

"Killing an animal? I thought you were better than that." His breath is rancid, hot against my face.

For a moment, I can't speak through the pain. My leg had hit the ground hard, and now I can feel a fresh wave of blood pouring out. "Get off of me," I hiss.

His smile widens. "Give me the necklace."

" _Why do you want it?_ "

He hits me. Hard. His knuckles crunching against my cheekbone, my head snapping to the side, light bursting over my vision. My teeth slice across my lower lip, and I taste blood. He buries his fists into the font of my sweatshirt and yanks me up off the ground, closer to him.

"You _know_ why." His voice is calm, unbelievably calm. "Give up the innocent act, boy. We both know you stole that from me."

No, good sir, I don't know why. I almost say this to him, but for some reason, instead, I laugh. It hurts, and absolutely nothing is funny about this situation, and yet I do it."You're crazy. I didn't steal it from anyone."

Icy eyes burrow deep into mine. The cruel smile pulling the tips of his lips up is frozen there. "You're a good liar."

I give him my best sneer. "You know, that kind of shit only works when people are _lying_."

He seems to consider hitting me again, but instead just gives a curt sigh. "Where did you get it, then? A precious gift from your mommy?"

"Actually, yeah," I say simply. And then I hack up a wad of saliva and blood and spit right in his face.

He's shocked, at least for one millionth of a second. I can see it in his eyes. But then he lifts one hand from the front of my sweatshirt and calmly wipes it away. When he speaks, his voice is deadly. "That wasn't very nice."

Before I can do anything, the weight of his knees on my shoulders disappears, and then suddenly he's dragging me roughly across the ground by my injured arm. I yell as my knee slides over the forest floor. My fingers claw and his hand, but he grabs the hood of my sweatshirt and yanks so hard I can't breathe for a second. And then he's hauling me to my feet, and then I'm upright, and I feel the roughness of bark scraping into my back, and I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe.

He's got his hands wrapped around my throat. His thumbs dig into the flesh over my larynx, pressing down so hard my eyes bulge and my back is cemented to the tree behind me. My hands scrabble to loosen his, but his grip is too tight. So I bring my good hand up and try to rake my fingernails across his face.

Before I can, he brings me forward to push me backward, and slams my head against the tree, again and again, until my arm flops back to my side, limp. I'm dazed—it feels like I just finished a round of chemo, and my guts are preparing themselves to be barfed out.

Charles snarls at me. "I could snap your neck, you know. A little more pressure, and POP!" As if for emphasis, he pushes down harder against my windpipe. My eyes widen in alarm, and it feels like they're about to pop right out of my skull. I feel myself spluttering, but no sound comes out. My lungs scream. "The sad little flame of your life, extinguished."

Black bubbles at the edge of my vision. I can feel my fingers going slack, the way my muscles are starting to relax. I try to suck in a lungful of air, but nothing happens but a gruesome croaking noise.

Through half-lidded eyes, I see that icy smile of his widen. "But I am not unkind," he says quietly.

He drops me. Just like that. His fingers are gone from my throat, and I collapse to the ground as cool air gushes down my windpipe, and I'm choking, I'm choking but I can't stop gulping it in, and the air burns like fire and I'm hacking but _I need to breathe_. Charles just watches me. Smiling.

I'm still gasping like a fish out of water when he kneels down next to me. He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls back hard, forcing me to look at him. I still can't breathe. He still won't stop smiling.

Slowly, as if for dramatic effect, he pulls his gun out with his free hand. Waves it in front of my face for me to see.

"For the record," he states to me, "you've impressed me for a child."

And then he brings the gun to the side of my temple, and I fade away.

* * *

 **My oh my, has it been a while. *Mentally smacks self with a hammer 'cause it's been like FOUR MONTHS* I am so, so sorry! I hope the New Year has treated everyone well so far :) This story has been at the back of my mind for ages, and I'm happy I finally got this down on virtual paper . . . The plot has started to thicken, ladies and gents. Like, comment, follow, favorite, critique, you know the drill! Thanks for reading and just generally being awesome.**

 **Lots 'o love!**

 **-a hopefully newly productive TWS**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except some characters I made up, but we'll get to that later)**

* * *

Chapter Four

"Momma?"

I'm at home. It still smells good, like warm cinnamon and gooey frosting from the cinnamon rolls we made for dessert. I can still taste the sticky dough, since I snuck past brushing my teeth tonight, and I know that's bad of me but cinnamon rolls are so special when we have them for dessert I wanted to keep tasting them, but now they taste really really bad in my mouth.

My heart pounds hard. "Momma, where are you?"

Her voice comes from the dining room. Heavy and tired. "I'm over here, Ratonhnaké:ton."

I huff at that, and it makes me forget why I went out of my bedroom. She confuses me, she does, with all the switching name stuff. Some days I'm Connor. Some days I'm Ratonhnaké:ton. The last one especially confuses me, 'cause I can't ever tell if I'm in trouble or not when she uses it.

I step into the dining room, my blanket trailing behind me like a long, blue tail. The wood floors go _squeak squeak_ when I step on them in the right spots.

"Momma," I whisper. She sitting at the table, papers thrown everywhere in front of her. She looks tired. Tired like her voice sounded. "Momma, I think I heard someone outside."

She looks up from the paper and gives me a goofy smile. "Hon, it was probably just the trees dancing in the wind."

I nod, 'cause I already know this, but I still needed to get out of my dark room and into the warm kitchen where Momma is with the nice smell of cinnamon rolls. "But it was really, really loud."

The goofy smile is still on her face when she holds her arms out to me. I go up to her and plop onto her lap, and her hands fluff up my blanket and wrap the blanket around me, and then her arms wrap around the blanket wrapped around me so I'm in a fluffy cocoon of blue. Her chin rests on my head, and she sighs a little.

"Maybe the trees are just dancing a little too hard, that's all." She leans to one side, makes me teeter on her lap. I can hear the smile in her voice. "Like this." She leans to the other side, and I teeter even more, and I have to clutch onto her shirt to stay on, but I laugh because it feels like I'm going to fall but I know she's got me, wrapped in a fluffy cocoon of blue.

Momma laughs with me, then lifts her chin off my head to look at me. "You go get some sleep, okay?"

I nod. "Okay." It won't be bad now, going back to my dark room, because I'll have the smell of cinnamon rolls with me and I know the trees are just dancing, that's all.

She smiles wide and kisses me on the cheek. "Go on." I slide off of her lap and let my blanket uncurl into its blue trail again. But when I start walking there's a noise again, one that's a lot louder than what I heard in my room. A huge crunching and crashing. I jump and turn around—that wasn't the trees dancing. Momma screams, and it makes my heart squeeze.

Our window is not where our window is supposed to be. Instead, it's all around the floor, in little triangles of glass. There's a big lump of something sitting in our living room with a paper attached to it.

"Ratonhnaké:ton! Ratonhnaké:ton, come here." The smile is gone in Momma's voice now. She's over to me in a flash, wrapping me back up in her arms.

"What's going on?" I cry. I'm scared now. Really scared. I don't want to go back to my room anymore, my room with the shadows.

Momma's running with me. We're going to her room instead. I bury my face into her neck so I don't have to look at the dark shapes on the wall. "It's okay, hon, it's okay."

I feel us moving, but I keep my eyes shut tight.

"Connor?"

No, no looking. I know what happens now, how Mom and I rush into her bedroom and sit on her bed in the dark, and she rocks back and forth with me until I cry myself out, and how afterwards she goes to get the note that the strangers gave to us by a brick in our window. She didn't want me to notice the note. But I still saw it.

 _Three days_ , it said.

That was the night of _Owise_ , she used to say to me. Three days before the fire. The Night of Glass.

"Connor." The voice, that voice, I realize, is not my mother's.

My mother is dead.

"C'mon, Connor. Wake up."

A splashing sound, and suddenly I'm very, very cold. Something trickles down my forehead, my chin, my neck, soaks into the neckline of my sweatshirt. Water.

Slowly, painstakingly, I peel my eyes open.

I'm in a small room, one with a brittle fluorescent that's an icy kind of white. So icy, in fact, it hurts my eyes. I squeeze them shut for a couple seconds, and then open them again to see if that helps.

It doesn't.

My head hurts. A _lot_. It feels like that one morning after Kane found me up in the attic at Home, where I was pissed for obvious reasons about the doctors failing in yet another clinical trial. I had stolen a bottle of Chase's bourbon (he was Ella's "friend" that came over every now and then) and I wasn't giving a shit anymore. Kane sate down next to me and we toasted to shitty lives, and the next morning, I swear somebody had come into my room and beaten my brain with a baseball bat.

But this ache is different than a hangover. It's deeper, almost like a rooted throb.

I blink, but it's like my muscles refuse to respond to my brain—I move like I'm stuck underwater, so slow it's painful. Blink, pause. Blink, pause. Water trickles into my eyes, and I squint to get it out.

That's when I register that there's a face in front of mine. Numbly, I stare at it. It stares back.

"Welcome back to the world of the living." The face smiles. For some reason it won't come into focus. I know it's a guy, though, and he seems familiar, so for a second I have this weird sense of ease.

But then he slides backwards in his chair, and my blood freezes.

His eyes are grey. No, that's not the right word.

Colorless. They're colorless.

Charles Lee.

He grins as soon as he sees the recognition on my face. I watch him silently. My mind buzzes, struggling to shove the pieces together, to try and make sense of this. What happened? All I remember is . . . Is what? I was eating breakfast . . . and he came with his stupid dog . . . and he . . . he wanted my pendant.

 _My pendant_. My hands fly to my throat, because something feels wrong, and my pendant can't be gone, _it can't be gone_ , but my hands don't actually move. Confused, I look down and see why.

Metal winds around my wrists and snakes into chain loops, binding my hands to the table resting in front of me.

I look back up at Lee and wish the flesh would melt right off his face.

"Handcuffs?" I rasp. "Really?"

I have to clear my throat after I talk, and then I wince because it doesn't feel so great, and then I wince because I winced. When I try to swallow, I have to really focus on it. It feels like somebody went all gung ho with some sandpaper on the inside of my throat.

And why is that? Ah, yes, because I was strangled by the creep sitting in front of me.

"Don't try to talk," he says as he grabs a bucket on his left—I hear a sloshing sound, so I'm assuming he did the thing where he splashed water on me to wake me up, which sucks because it's _cold_ —and takes it off the table. "Your vocal cords are still pretty swollen."

 _Yeah, no shit, you psychopath_. And they don't seem to be the only things that are; as I'm becoming more aware, I start to register the different levels of pain stabbing all throughout my body. My head. My arm. My throat. My leg . . . holy _shit_ my leg hurts.

I'm afraid of what I'll see when I look at it. Is it just a hole? Like, can I see my bone? An image of peering down and seeing my own bone sticking out of my leg makes my stomach turn. No, I won't see my bone sticking out of my leg. C'mon, you dipshit. That's not how it always works. I need to try and convince myself that it won't be as bad as I'm expecting, but I also need to assess the situation since I don't really want to bleed to death because of a hole in my leg, and I should just look at it, but my mind does a wonderful job of helping by painting gruesome pictures in front of me. God, I'm a wuss. _Just look at it, Connor._

Expecting the worse, AKA my bone protruding out of my thigh and sinewy muscle ripped and torn open (don't ask how it got that far), I gather enough courage to glance at it. But I'm surprised to see that it's wrapped tightly with some white cloth. White cloth stained with a lot of red.

What the hell? If I'm actually remembering all this shit correctly, and my brain didn't get seriously bashed in, he tried to snipe me in the head more than a couple times. So why even bother patching me up? Why even aim for the leg?

Unless . . . unless he wanted to keep me for something.

That doesn't make any sense.

My face pinches with pain. The forearm of my sweatshirt is spongy with blood, and I know for a fact that there's no white cloth for that mess. A thousand million questions are zooming through my head, so I decide to go with the most cliché: "Where am I?"

The small room I'm in is flat and grey, with a window-less door that looks extremely heavy. The brittle fluorescents shine down hard. There's absolutely nothing on the walls except for a lengthy mirror to my right, which, duh, I'm not an idiot, is probably one-way. I stare at it, into it, and my reflection stares back.

I look like I just had ten rounds of chemo done in five minutes; the only color my face has are the deep purple pools beneath my eyes. Well, that, and the ugly red bruise lying across my cheek. And the collar of purple that puckers around my neck. My hair is sticking up every-which-way, still dripping wet with water, and my lips are cracked.

I stare harder at the mirror, looking past myself, trying for some ridiculous reason to see through it, hoping the bastards on the other side know that I am not. Happy.

But then, what if there aren't any bastards on the other side? What if it's just Lee? Charles Lee, the creepy middle-aged man with a molester mustache who has his own CSI room for questioning. The disturbing thought makes goosebumps crawl over my arms, and I move my eyes around the room, looking for a way out.

Lee lets me look around for a minute. Then he takes his sweet time answering when I focus my gaze back at him. So long, in fact, that I have to ask him again in my voice that's nothing but a croaky little wisp.

"You are in an interrogation room," he replies simply.

I snort at that. And then I wince again. Jesus, I can't even snort? "Oh, and here I was, thinking it was your living room."

He smiles at me, obviously unamused. "Comfortable?"

"Not really."

"That's good." We stare at each other for a long moment. Him with his arms folded over his chest, me with my arms resting on the table. The handcuffs rub against my wrists-I shift a little, and they clank loudly, metal on metal.

I decide that since he doesn't seem so talkative right now, I don't have to be either.

But then he surprises me. "You're probably wondering why you're alive, yes?"

Pissed, I think about saying something smart-assish, but instead I force myself to bite my tongue. Because I really am wondering why I'm alive right now.

"Frankly, I'm wondering that too. It'd be easier if you out of the way." He sighs and sinks back into his chair. It's the same chair I'm in, one made of nothing but hard metal and is (shocker) the same grey as the room. "But, keeping you alive for now does seem to have some perks."

So, he didn't want to keep me alive. Not okay. Super red flag right there. But does that mean somebody else told him not to kick my bucket for me, or did he just have a change of heart?

Oh my God, what the hell is even happening.

He breaks eye contact to reach into the pocket of his pants. He's changed, I notice. Out of the North Face jacket with jeans and into some khakis—yes, khakis—and a black shirt. He looks like somebody's creepy dad. I decide that if Carrie had a psycho dad rather than a mom, he would be the dad.

"You know what this is," he says as he holds my pendant out in front of me. Not a question. A statement.

I have to fight to keep my voice steady. "My necklace."

He makes one of those teacher faces, the one they make when you answer a question and you don't really hit their mark that you have to hit to be right; his eyebrows scrunch down and his nose wrinkles.

"Come now, think a little harder."

Irritated, I quickly force air out of my nose. " _A_ necklace."

For some reason, he chuckles as if I've said a joke. It's an ugly sound, sharp and unpleasant. He holds my pendant up in front of his eyes, dangling it by the string. "Oh, indeed."

We're both quiet for another moment. His eyes sweep over the circle, and I can't help but notice how hungry they look. How they drip with an uneasy sense of greed.

"How did this come into your possession?" He looks back at me. My pendant still dangles from his hand; my neck seems naked, like some of the skin has been stripped off or something.

"I already told you."

A crease forms on his forehead. "I don't recall."

Oh, maybe it's because you were trying so hard to jab some lead into my brain. "My mom gave it to me."

He raises his eyebrows. He's really animated with his eyebrows. "Oh, yes. So, your mom gave it to you . . . when?"

I throw a look of utter disgust at him. "Wednesday, March third, nineteen-eighty-nine, at exactly twelve thirty seven p.m. I don't have a clue, dumbass."

He doesn't flinch at my insult. Just sits there with my necklace in his hand, apparently thinking hard. "You know, I don't have to be anywhere for a long time. I'm assuming you don't have to be, either?"

Again, I have to take a big breath to steady myself, brush past the rawness of my throat. This guy is really good at making me angry.

"I seriously don't remember. I've always had it."

He nods, like I was supposed to say this, and glances at the pendant again. His fingers skim over the wood.

"Where's your mother, now?"

A small pang punches at my heart, just like it always does when I have to say these words. "She's dead."

Lee grins. "How convenient."

I snarl at him. "Look, nimrod, I'm not going to spill out my sob story for you. Yeah, she's dead. Died when I was four. Happy?"

He purses his lips, and before he can replies, there's this ominous buzzing noise. The heavy door swings outwards, and Lee smiles as a man with small eyes and a rat-looking face enters the room. "Ah, Mr. Hickey!"

The man smiles back at Lee and saunters closer, letting the door drift close. "Hey, Charles." To me, "Is this the fresh meat?"

Lee nods."Hickey, this is Connor, who's—" He snaps his fingers and scrunches his eyes shut. He turns to me. "How old did you say you were again?"

"I didn't," I whisper.

Okay, so it's not just Lee in his demented CSI living room. There are more bastards behind it. But how many? The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and my leg throbs harder as my heart starts to race.

Lee nods again, and then reaches underneath the table for something. He comes back up with a tattered black notebook.

The same tattered black notebook I've been writing in for the duration of the last few years.

In retrospect, I probably should've known he would've taken my stuff. But seeing his hands page through my release, where I could talk about my mom and my dad and my screwed up life without anybody saying sorry afterwards . . . I almost lose it. My hands ball into fists, clenching so hard my tendons bulge, and I feel a small trickle of blood slide down my arm.

Lee stops at a page and points. "Ah, yes, what was it? 'A seventeen-year-old with a nice little death sentence.'" He snaps my notebook shut. "How poetic."

My voice is shaking now. "You went through my things."

I glare at him, throwing daggers with my eyes to pierce that stupid face of his. I know I should be scared. And I am. But more than anything right now, I'm pissed the hell off.

"What do you _want_ from me?" I snap at him. "A goddamn _necklace_? Huh? Well, go ahead, take it! You already have it!"

Lee opens his mouth, ready to spit out a retort, but he's interrupted by that buzzing again. He and Hickey turn as the door yawns open, and I see the way their shoulders stiffen as yet another newcomer steps into the room.

Hickey stays silent, but Lee gives a little nod of acknowledgement and addresses the third man.

"Hello, Haytham."

* * *

 **Holy crap on a cracker, guys! First follower! I'd like to thank Artemis's best Huntress, for that. So, THANK YOU! :D And not only that, but uploaded within two weeks! New record ;) I think I'm going to try and stick to this schedule, so that's just a small heads up for ya. Like, comment, review, follow, worship, critique, yada yada yada. Thanks for reading.**

 **Hoping to see y'all in two weeks! Stay awesome.**

 **-TWS**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except some character I made up, but we'll get to that later)**

* * *

Chapter Five

Haytham has blue eyes.

Not an icy blue. Or a greenish blue. A deep, velvety navy. The color reminds me of the Atlantic waters that crash on the east of Massachusetts—water that kicks your own reflection back at you, currents cool and steely. Kane and I went to Crane Beach last summer, and even when the sun was at its peak and it was so hot that ice cream was served as soup, the water absorbed your body heat and got darker and deeper the farther you swam.

That's what his eyes seem to be like. An oceany-blue that makes his irises seem like they go on forever. Like they're infinite. Like they're the water at Crane Beach that only gets darker the deeper you look. They stare into my own, sharp and calculating, sweeping over me with an empty look. I frown at myself, because they look like the eyes of someone I should know.

They're the first thing I notice.

The next thing I notice is that he looks pissed beyond all means.

He regards me with a cold kind of politeness before turning to Lee. "What is this?"

Do I see Mr. Frozone's Evil Twin cower a little? I think I do. Lee's posture shrinks slightly, and he slides my black notebook over the table towards Haytham like he's a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Hickey, the other man, has pressed his lips together in a firm line and has pushed himself against the far wall.

Yeah, you hide, Rat-Man.

Haytham crosses his arms over his chest, and I can't help it. I feel myself grow smaller, the anger inside of me slowly being eaten up by fear. He's massive. Not overweight massive, but muscular massive. His arms bulge beneath his red button down, and he's gotta be at least six three.

"Well?" His voice, I realize, has a very, very, very authoritative undertone. Deep and rich, like his eyes. " _Well?_ "

Lee sighs and throws me the Hairy Eyeball, as if all of this were my fault.

That does it. That rekindles some of the rage in me.

I think back to what Hickey said when he first entered the room, and of course, without thinking, I bring myself up to my fullest height, look Haytham dead in the eyes, and let my damn mouth run.

"I'm the fresh meat," I jeer, my voice cracking.

Slowly, he turns towards me. He's older than Lee and Hickey, with salt and pepper hair that's neatly trimmed, and the scruffy beginnings of a beard. His skin is tan. Crow's feet make small folds at the corners of his eyes. This confuses me; I can't imagine any of these men would ever smile so genuinely that they would have crow's feet.

Uncrossing his arms, still maintaining eye contact, he takes a steps towards me. Then he places his palms on the table and leans forward. So far forward that my personal bubble definitely pops. There's a deadly kind of grace to his movement, a certain fluidity that makes me feel like I'm the injured zebra in those animal documentaries, watching the very hungry lion walk towards it.

The faint smell of cigar smoke stains his clothes. "Did I ask you?" he says in a low voice.

Part of me wants to shake my head. Another part of me wants to point out that he wasn't asking anyone in particular. But I don't do either. I just stay silent, words swallowed back, lips closed.

Brown eyes try to find the end to blue ones. Something doesn't seem right in them. They're not desolate, like Lee's, or small, like Hickey's.

They're sad. A somber sheen of dullness is in them, makes the navy seem flat. They're like . . .

They're like the eyes of everyone back at the Home.

Even though seventeen years is barely qualified as a chunk of life (though doctors have tried to convince me otherwise), it's still plenty enough to see the same eyes in different people.

Eyes with that somber sheen are the eyes I've grown up looking into. People who have seen too much, who have witnessed too much, who have lived in shadows even during the longest days of the year, the days with the most sunlight. Eyes that have experienced love, and then had it taken from them.

Haytham notices me observing him, and he blinks at my silence. "That's what I thought." He slides his hands back from the table and returns to his spot by the door, between Lee and Hickey. Air pushes out of my lungs and weaves itself around my teeth; I let go of a breath I didn't even realize I had been holding.

Finally, Lee seems to find his voice. He taps my notebook twice, then raises himself off the solid metal chair. He only has to look up a little to meet Haytham's gaze. I never thought of Lee as tall, but now that he's standing next to the behemoth of Haytham, I notice they're not that different in height. "He's one of them, Haytham."

Haytham seems really surprised by this. His eyebrows shoot upwards, and a small "huh" of surprise makes its way past his lips. He glances back at me.

"Are you?"

I'm lost. Not like I ever really understood what was happening for the past day, but now things are taking on a whole new level of confusion.

Lee found me in the woods. He wasn't there for hiking reasons, obviously. He wanted my necklace. But it's not like he would've come across a ton of people out there. So why go hiking to try and find it? Does that mean that he was _following_ me?

No, that's not right. He was surprised that I had the necklace; it caught him off guard when he saw it. But seriously, the chances of him coming across me out there were pretty slim. So there was some other reason he went out there.

And now I'm "one of them?" What is that supposed to mean? Are they a cult, or something? Is that what this is?

So many things are _not_ adding up here.

My hand goes up to my neck to grab my pendant for comfort, but seeing as my hands are cuffed to a table and my pendant is in the hands of Lee, that doesn't really work. I end up yanking my hand up as far as it can go, and then letting it fall back on the cool surface of the table.

"One of what?" I ask them.

Haytham sighs a curt little sigh. "Let's agree not to act ignorant, alright?"

I glare at him. "I'm not acting—"

"Ah, bullshit," Lee interrupts. "He had this around his neck in plain sight." Lee shoves my necklace in Haytham's face, lets it dangle in front of his eyes. Haytham grabs the circular wood gently and rests it in his palm, allowing Lee to keep a the string in his hand.

Having them observe my pendant like it's something shoved underneath a microscope makes me really, really uncomfortable. I find myself leaning forwards in the icy metal chair, and the movement makes an excruciating heat flood my entire leg, racing all the way up and down my spine.

My eyes are locked onto Haytham. He handles the necklace with the same sort of care Lee did, but he doesn't look at it with the same lust. "This is it?" he asks.

Lee gives forth another one of his small nods. "This is it."

Haytham almost weighs the thing in his hand, tilting his head to look at it from a different angle. Suddenly, a smile raises the edges of his lips. "Well done, then, Lee."

Lee grins back at the mention of praise. Releasing the leather string, he lets Haytham take a closer look, and then settles back into his chair. He's even uglier when he's smug.

Without looking up, Haytham throws another question at me. "How did you come across this, boy?"

It takes me a while to swallow. "Why?"

"Don't test me, child."

My stomach boils. A small voice in my head screams at them, and something inside of me snaps. "My name isn't _boy_ ," I hiss, so forcefully that my voice gives out to a whisper. "Or _child_. It's Connor."

Haytham's head jerks up so fast I swear I hear every single vertebrae in his neck crack. His eyes lock onto mine again, but this time, there's something else in them than just sadness. Rage. Horror. Disbelief. Even . . . recognition? Contradicting emotions that clash together and rip apart the blue for just a moment, irony waters parting for long enough where I can see the bottom.

Suddenly, my stomach churns as the uncomfortable buzz of deja vu hits me like a brick.

Who _is_ this guy? He's familiar. _Really_ familiar. He looks like someone I should know.

Lee frowns, undoubtedly sensing the uncomfortable exchange between Haytham and I, but says nothing. Hickey shuffles awkwardly in the corner. My mush of a brain tries to sort all of this out, but I'm too late.

Haytham's eyes are nothing but that deep blue again. "Well, _Connor_ ," he says, over-emphasizing every single letter. "Tell me something: Do I look like I give two shits about your name?"

It feels like a glare is permanently glued onto my features. "You know, actually, yeah, since you guys have gone out of your way to make this transition into crazy really comfortable."

Lee scoffs and shakes his head, crossing his arms. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?"

Haytham holds up a hand to silence his partner. He leans forwards again, his torso stretching over the top of the table, and when he speaks, his voice matches the deadliness in his eyes.

"Get up."

I raise an eyebrow at him in question, trying really hard to see if he's serious. I can't exactly "get up" if my hands are stuck to a table.

He glances towards Lee, who presses his lips together in a thin, hard line, but seems to know what to do without being asked. He reaches into the pocket of his khakis and fishes out something small and metallic. A key.

My throat tightens. _He's serious._

Lee passes the key to Haytham, who, having tucked my pendant safely away in his own fricking pocket, opens his palm to accept it. His finger closes around it, and he grabs my wrists. His hands are dry. And cold.

Metal grinds on metal as the tumblers in the cuffs fall away, and then there's a satisfying clicking noise, and the handcuffs are gone. Just like that. They clatter onto the table, two mouths yawning wide.

I don't know what to do with my hands. Blood rushes into my fingertips, so fast my palms start to tingle, and I'm tempted to rub my wrists, but I don't. I just let them sit there on the table.

Haytham has fixated that deadly stare on me again. "Get. Up."

That crawling sensation I felt in the forest is back. Tiny invisible bugs scatter all over my body, gnawing away at my skin. "Why?" I ask him in a small voice.

I don't know if this was a trigger or if he's just really an unstable person, but he lunges at me. Hardcore. His fists yank at the front of my sweatshirt, bringing my upper body closer to him and slamming my hips against the table. Pain trickles down my injured leg.

" _Get up_ ," he says harshly. Dry knuckles clutching fabric. He jerks my sweatshirt upwards, bringing me with it, and the movement sends the chair behind me screeching.

Haytham lets go as he brings me to a standing position. As soon as I put weight on my left leg, I scream. I can't help it—the pain is something I've never experienced before. Sharp and dull at once, all-consuming. My knees buckle beneath me and I stumble to the floor, landing on my hands and my good leg.

Haytham stomps around the table, grabs my biceps, and yanks me back up to my feet. A new wave of crimson seeps over the already-red bandage, and I have to grind my teeth against the inside of my cheeks to keep from crying out again.

"Walk," he snaps at me.

At first, I can only jerk my head back and forth. It takes a while for me to find my voice. "I can't," I whisper.

" _Walk_." He brings his hands to my back and shoves. The momentum makes me trip forwards, but somehow, I manage to stay upright. My hands shoot for the table to steady myself, but I'm not used to putting all my weight on just my right leg; my balance (or lack thereof) sends me toppling.

I stagger sideways into Hickey, who makes a disgusted noise and shoves me off of him, which then sends me staggering sideways into Lee, where I make a disgusted noise and make myself stagger back into Haytham.

He takes me by my arm again and flings me forwards. " _Walk_ , for Christ's sake! Can you even comprehend words, boy? Are you _that_ simple?"

I lose it. The confusion and anger and just plain _hatred_ building up inside of me floods over, breaking the dam, turning me wild. I turn to Haytham, snarling, wishing I had my gun with me so I could blow out his stupid brains. And Lee's. And Hickey's. "In case you haven't noticed," I scream at him, bent over with agony, " _it's a little difficult with a fucking bullet in my knee!_ "

I lunge at him. I don't care that I can only stand on one leg and he's a behemoth with two other behemoths backing him up and they probably can squish me like a bug. I just lunge at him with everything that I've got.

He doesn't even flinch. Even when my fingers graze the air by his cheek, trying to rip at his flesh, he stands as stoic as a statue. Lee and Hickey race forwards and seize me, one of their hands on my shoulders, and the other on my biceps. I struggle against them so hard I start to feel their fingers leave bruises.

Lee grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks back so hard I feel a couple strands pull loose. My head snaps back on my neck, and the headache pounding dully at the base of my brain explodes over the expanse of my forehead. "Try that again and I'll cut off your fingers," he hisses into my ear.

Hickey kicks the back of my knees as Lee releases my hair, and I fall to the floor. Nearly all of my weight crashes down on my bad knee, even though my arms are still suspended in their grasp. Black splotches trickle at the edge of my vision. I keel over, out of breath, momentarily stunned.

Haytham has taken his one behemoth step to stand in front of me, and now he bends at the waist to meet my height. His dry hand grabs hold of my chin and tightens. Fingernails digging into my skin, pain lacing into my muscles.

"You will listen to me," he says quietly. Oh, so quietly. He's angry. "You will do as I say, and you will do it without question, and _without doing anything like you've just done_."

I'm still trying to breathe normally. He lets his hand fall from my face and my chin droops, and suddenly, I'm exhausted.

This is too crazy for me. This is enough crazy for ninety-eight lifetimes.

"Take him to the room. I'll follow shortly." Haytham idles back to the table, his hand going to his pocket, his mind already elsewhere. I know that because of the way his eyes are already deep in thought. Calculating something more important. He comes to my notebook and peels the cover open, his fingers skimming over the pencil marks.

"Give me back my pendant," I croak at him.

A sweep of the hand. He doesn't even look up from my notebook. "Take him away."

That long buzzing noise, and the door opens, and the two men holding me upright do exactly that.

* * *

 **AARGH. One day late. I am both very happy and very disappointed with myself.**

 **Hello all! Hope life's going well. I'd like to thank Tanjamusen for becoming my second follower (OH MY BLOB THANKS!) and just everyone in general for reading. Like, follow, comment, critique, use as a sacrifice for satan, blah blah blah blah blah. Hope you guys enjoyed :)**

 **See you in two weeks, loves! Adios**

 **-TWS**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except for some characters I made up, but we'll get to that later.)**

* * *

Chapter Six

I've had worse.

The night Mom died, I felt about six million times more terrible than I do now. When I was told that they couldn't contact my dad no matter how hard they tried and that they were so very, very, sorry, my soul got hit with six million more punches than now. The day, that stupid summer day when I was given my pathetic excuse of a death sentence, my head pounded and my heart lurched about six million times more than now.

C'mon, Connor. You've had worse.

That's what I keep telling myself. Sitting here, in a musty windowless room, slumped against a musty wall, staring at a musty ceiling, legs resting on a musty floor, I feel like that's the thing I _have_ to tell myself so I don't implode.

And believe me. I am very, very close to imploding.

Time has started to trickle away. There are no windows in here, so I can't judge the time passed by light, and God forbid that they put up a clock. It's just me and the musty walls, and the dinky little light bulb shining on those musty walls. All alone.

I don't know how long I've been stuck here. Hours? Maybe, if hours lasted three years each, and then rewound themselves to repeat seven times. Probably a few days. But how many?

By my judgement, if I were really being technical, I'd say around three; so far, three times, I've had a healthy meal of one water bottle and a stale hunk of bread delivered to me through a cat flap—yes, a cat flap—that's inserted in the thick wooden door of my cell. I never know who delivers it; nothing but a hand in and out before I can blink, seen just for two seconds less than a moment.

I haven't seen anyone's face since Haytham's visit. And I don't know if I'm being melodramatic or not, but now, it's like I'm starting to forget the details of people. They just come and go, different pieces to a puzzle that make sense alone, but don't fit together.

The paranoia is like a fog, getting deeper and darker the more I breathe it in. I can't do anything to take my mind off of nothing.

So, my mind wanders.

I think about what got me into this mess. I try to remember something, anything that could help me one-up Lee or Haytham. I invent ways to get out of here, each one more impossible and unlikely as the last.

But there's no way out of this place. I've tried. No windows, no vents, no secret passageways. Just a wooden door that's always locked, one that doesn't buzz aggressively when it's opened, but is aggressive enough by itself. It doesn't even dent when I kick at it for hours on end. There's the cat flap, but to get through it, I'd have to cut myself in half, and then cut those halves in half, and then half those halves, and I'd prefer to come out of this in one piece.

I have noticed, however, that there are some very suspicious stains. Rusty brown splatters on the floor, dots on the walls. So, I'm guessing, I haven't been the only guest to room here. And I'm guessing they were given friendly little presents like the one I have in my leg, too.

I almost hate this place more than the interrogation room. At least there I had a mirror for entertainment.

After Haytham ordered me away, Lee and Hickey dragged my sorry ass out and into another, smaller area. This room wasn't as intimidating. Just a plain rectangle with nothing on the walls but a window, through which, from my position, I could see Haytham and the chair and the table and the fluorescent. (So I had been right—the mirror had been one way.) Haytham was flipping through my notebook. I couldn't tell for sure, but I thought his eyes flicked up towards the window-slash-mirror, trying to see past it, trying to see through it to me, but then another door was flung open and we were gone.

They brought me into a hallway, which surprisingly, was nothing more than your average unfinished-basement-kind of hallway—bare, wooden skeletons of walls, cement floors, naked light bulbs with metal chains, but I couldn't see a staircase anywhere. There were lots of doors, though.

I struggled against the duo dragging me along, but it was pathetic. The fire in my leg was enough to make the edges of my vision fuzz up. So I just let myself get hauled through the surprisingly average unfinished-basement-kind of hallway, looking for anything that could help me. Side note: I found nothing.

After a moment of dragging and me failing to find anything useful at all, there was the jingle of keys being handled and the crunch of one going into a lock. They opened one of the doors, and voila, here we are. Lee and Hickey tossed me in here and left without another word.

They did, however, do a wonderful job of making sure I could hear every single tumbler turn as they locked me in here.

A hefty sigh works its way up my lungs and pushes air out of my mouth. I flinch inwardly at the feel of peeling skin chafing on peeling skin—my lips are so dry they've started to crack—and reach for my water bottle of the day, careful to use my left hand. My index finger on my right pounds in sync with my leg, and now, it looks like a purple and blue sausage.

Slowly, I unscrew the cap with one hand, then bring the plastic to my arid lips.

The water is warm and stuffy, but still. At least I've got it. It feels so good against my throat (which, by the way, has started to finally reduce its swelling and go back to the size of a normal throat, I think) and almost helps the pounding in my head, if I tell myself that it does. I take a huge swig, and I swear, I can taste every molecule gushing down into my stomach. I'm careful not to spill any when I screw the cap back on.

What do I use the empty ones for? Well, let's just say they didn't exactly give me the prison suite with a bathroom installed, so I had to use my imagination. My imagination involved empty water bottles.

A deep, rooted twinge from my knee makes my whole leg tighten, and I have to focus all my attention on my breathing for a moment. My leg is getting worse. The bullet wound hasn't closed up yet, and when I check underneath the bandages, there's always a tiny trickle of blood oozing from the entrance point.

During Night One, I finally worked up enough courage to peel the crimson-soaked fabric back and peek at the friendly present Lee had given me. It's not as gory as I had pictured, thank God, but it's not exactly pretty to look at, either—the flesh is ragged and torn at the edges, bright red and and black and purple, the entrance point about the size of a quarter. I can't see my bone, but there's definitely some breakage in there. And not only that, but the bullet, that stupid hunk of metal, is still in there. If I think about it hard enough, I imagine I can feel it, wedged between muscle and bone, bulging underneath my skin. It makes my stomach cramp.

Yesterday, I took off my grimy sweatshirt and wrapped it around my knee, trying to fashion my own tourniquet. It must've kind of worked, since I haven't bled out yet. Wohoo.

The flesh all around the bandage is puffy and glazed with sheer, though, and there's more than just blood trickling out now. So no. No wohoo. I'm not stupid—I know what infection looks like.

Sweating a little, I let my head fall back against the wall and allow myself to close my eyes for a second.

For the thousandth time, my exhausted mind replays the last situation when I communicated with another human being: when Haytham came to visit me. Three days ago, now? It feels like decades. It feels like seconds.

He bursted in about five minutes after Lee and Hickey dumped me in here. No notebook, no gun, nothing. Just him and his very prominent frown.

After he twisted the lock to keep us both in this little slice of hell, he turned towards me with his hands on his hips. Parent style.

"What is this?" he had questioned me. "Is this some kind of joke?"

I had been dumped in here very unceremoniously, so in my five minutes alone, I had allowed myself to slump against the wall in an extremely non-heroic way. When Haytham came in, though, I made myself straighten against the wall. "So, you're asking that too, huh?"

He brought his fist against the wood of the door. The whole thing shrieked on its hinges, acting for a moment as if it would explode right then and there. I jumped where I sat. " _Stop messing around_!" he shouted at me. "Do you realize how _serious_ this is?"

Looking back, I can't help but laugh. Why the hell would I take any of this seriously? I'm just a kid, and we all know kids can't take _anything_ seriously, yeah? Especially when they get shot and punched and humiliated and taken into custody. No, in those circumstances, ladies and gents, us kids don't do anything but "mess around."

Adults. They're the ones who don't take things seriously. Actually, correction. They're the ones who don't take _me_ seriously.

Call me out on all the teenage angst you want, but I'm done with this shit. I've had enough of people telling me what I feel. That's the whole reason I came out to White Mountain, wasn't it?

He had calmed down enough to register the pain in his knuckles; he ground them against the open palm of his other hand, rubbing them slowly. He also had started to pace like a madman, his heavy boots stomping the floor back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, air whooshing out of his nose in a controlled kind of rage.

The casual air he had back in the interrogation room had vanished completely. He was infuriated, but with _what_? With me? With his comrades?

This, the pacing and the radiation of anger, continued for a while before he finally paused to look at me.

"How much do you know?"

I held his gaze without answering for as long as I dared. "Nothing." Which was the truth.

He, apparently, didn't believe so. Haytham pounded towards me and yanked me up by my sweatshirt, then slammed me against the wall.

"You know," I croaked-slash-hollered at him before he could start on me, "all this man-handling and yanking and punching is getting less and less intimidating every time you do it."

He let go of the fabric around my neck with one hand and pushed against my chest. The blue in his eyes was lethal.

"Tell me this," he whispered. "Who are the Templars?"

Blank, dumbfounded, I stared at him. The _what_? The Templars? I heard the capitalization of the word in his voice, the way he said it with a sense of pride and authority. Weren't they part of the Crusades, or something?

When I didn't answer, he brought his hand from my chest to my knee, and drove his fist into my wound. I shouted at the top of my lungs, a short, quick, noise, completely caught-off guard. If I thought getting shot was the worst pain I've ever felt, I was wrong. This was worse.

"Answer me, please."

"I don't know!" I managed to scream at him. "I don't know, okay!?"

"Do you know who I am?"

I had started to keel over because of the fire in my leg, but he held me upright with his other hand. "A nutjob who enjoys torture?" I snapped at him through breaths. He dug his knuckles deeper into my knee. "I DON'T KNOW!"

"Who are the Assassins?"

There it was, again. That formal sound, the capitalization. "I don't know!"

He ground harder. Bone against muscle against skin against blood against flesh against bone. Black dots sprouted in my vision, and I heard myself make an inhuman noise. "Stop! _I don't know what you're talking about!_ "

I don't know. I don't know. How else could I word that to get it through to him?

He released me, let me collapse onto the floor. All of the breath whooshed out of my lungs, and before I could catch it again, he snatched my right hand and held my index finger between two of his. My head was bowed, my mouth wide and gasping, my eyes open with silent shock.

I felt so small at that moment. Him, a creature, staring down at me while I did nothing to defend myself. I couldn't. His voice was monotonous, unchanging, getting blander and blander with each question. "Are you telling me the truth?"

Nod. Nod, Connor. Let him know you were telling the truth. "Yes," I croaked, my voice shaking as hard as my arms. "I. Don't. Know."

He took my finger, and broke it. Just like that. Brought his hands together and crunched it like it was a baby carrot. I made a guttural noise as the bone snapped.

"Are. You. Lying?"

Tears had sprung to my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I looked up at the monster whose feet I knelt at and felt all of my rage, all of my fear and frustration and anger break loose. " _What part don't you get?_ " I roared. "I. Don't. Know. ANYTHING!"

He dropped me. I fell onto my stomach, my arms too weak to hold me up by myself. I couldn't see his face anymore. Mine was pressed against the musty cement, my cheek sticking to the cool surface, my eyes closed. But I could hear him. Him and his heavy boots walking away from me, away from the room and out the door. The lock opened, the door closed, the tumblers turned, and I was alone again.

So here we are.

I suck in a lungful of air again, my eyes still closed. I don't want to think about Haytham anymore. I don't want to think about why I'm here, or how I could impossibly escape, or how I'm probably going to die in a musty basement room. I just want to leave myself and think about something that makes the pounding in my head go away, and makes me disappear.

My mind wanders to Kane. My best friend.

Pudgy, worried, loveable Kane.

Jesus, he must be going ballistic. One missed call, and he'd freak. Two missed calls, and he'd probably sacrifice an animal or something. But three? He'd shit his pants and find me just so he could kill me, then travel to the underworld to find my soul, bring me back to life, and kill me a second time. Which would be nice, because at least I'd get to see him a couple more ti—

Wait.

 _Wait._

 _Three missed calls_.

Oh my God. If I've been here three days, that means I'm supposed to be home today. That means that if I'm not home, they're going to know that I'm missing, and they'll report that I'm missing, and that means that there'll be a search for me.

I said it on my note to Kane that I'd be in White Mountain, and . . . and my _phone_! Kane knows that I have my phone! If Lee kept it with my notebook, they can trace it! They can find me here!

Suddenly, it feels as though a balloon has started to inflate right above my abdomen. It makes breathing hard, and it makes my heart pump faster, but it's full of so much light air that I feel myself straighten a little. For the first time in days, a little ray of hope finds its way through the pessimistic cloud I've been wallowing under.

I'm saved. I'm gonna get out of here.

But then, as quickly as that balloon inflates, it punctures and pops. My insides fall down and squash against one another. And I feel really, really stupid.

Really, Connor? You're _saved?_

 _Think, nimrod. These guys aren't amateurs._

Eleven chances out of ten, they ditched my phone when they went through my stuff. Even bad guys in movies aren't dumb enough to make the mistake of keeping something others can track.

And nobody saw Lee kidnapping me—we were the only witnesses, so if they send out a search party, they're going to have to sweep the entirety of White Mountain before starting somewhere else.

I don't even know if I'm even near White Mountain, anymore. Hell, I don't even know if I'm in Vermont.

So yeah, everyone at the Home is gonna know I'm missing. But what do they do from there? Nothing. They can't do anything to help me. But that's my own damn fault.

A bitter taste has worked its way onto my tongue, and I squeeze my eyes harder, trying to block out everything. This is too much. I bring my good hand up, letting the one with the crusty dog bite and the broken finger to throb at my side, and bury my head into the crook of my elbow. This is way, way too much.

I think about what Kane made me promised the last time we talked. "Be careful."

I certainly did a good job of keeping that promise, didn't I?

There has to be something I can do. Anything.

And I'm right, because at this moment, I hear footsteps.

My head raises itself from beneath my arm, and I squint at the door to my cell.

The tumblers turn. The handle squeaks sideways. And for the first time in three days, I see a face.

* * *

 **DUN DUN DUNN! Man, I love cliff hangers. And I love them even more when I can say/write Dun Dun Dunn.**

 **The plot thickens . . . What's gonna happen to good 'ol Connor?!** **Sorry for being a little late, this chapter decided to be amazing in my head and non-existent on paper. I hope you guys enjoyed! As always, thank you so much for reading. Like, comment, favorite, follow, critique, call me. Stay awesome, mah peeps.**

 **I hope you all had a wonderful first day of Spring! Chat soon :)**

 **-TWS**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own ACIII. All rights belong to Ubisoft. (Except for some characters I made up)**

* * *

Chapter Seven

It's Haytham.

I can tell. Maybe it's the bulky boots or just the way the air grows heavy with the seriousness he carries on his shoulders, but I recognize it's him the same moment the handle shakes sideways. Two clunks from two boots, a groan from the door, the grinding of keys, and he's in. The first person I've seen in three days.

It takes an uncomfortable moment of him swinging the door closed before he actually turns to face me. And then, an even more uncomfortable moment of him shuffling the papers—notebook?—in his hands to actually meet my gaze.

He looks different. And I swear, it's not because of my melodramatic angst of not seeing someone for three days. Something with him has changed. I just can't tell what it is.

Another uncomfortable moment. This one with Haytham clearing his throat and then saying a single word: "Hello."

I decide to let silence meet his greeting. Mostly because of my stubbornness, and that the very sight of him is making my empty stomach churn and clench, but also because I'm just too damn tired.

We watch each other for a moment, something, I've noticed, we tend to do a lot of. Deciding to change it up a little, I avert my eyes from his to the notebook gripped in his hands. A black spiral bound, college ruled, a sticky coffee stain in the shape of a ring near the top left corner. It's mine. My notebook. I can't stop the warm surprise and relief that spreads down to my fingertips; I thought they would've tossed it already. My hands itch, and I want to rip that thing out of his own so badly that I almost summon enough strength to frown at him.

He notices me looking. Haytham glances down at the black spiral in his hands, then shifts on his feet the way that people do when they don't know what to do, but they know they have to do something. A ghost of a smile plays with the edges of his lips.

He gestures towards the floor. "Can I sit?"

Is he trying to be _funny_? Is he trying to make a goddamn _ice breaker?_ I'm so pissed this time I'm able to give him an unamused scowl. Doing it, I feel the split on my lower lip widen.

The ghost of a smile that was on his face vanishes, gone before it could even fully appear. Good. Someone like him shouldn't be able to smile.

He makes that soft gurgling sound as he clears his throat. Apparently, he can't take a message, because he situates himself for what looks like a long stay. Slowly, he settles down, bringing himself into a squat and then lowering to sit directly across from me. My notebook never leaves his hands.

I watch him as he relaxes himself into a sitting position. The silence between us never breaks. My eyes never leave his. Why is he here? They've already asked me enough times if I knew what the hell was going on, so if he's here to question me again, I swear to God, I'm going to bash my own head in for him. That horse was dead about seventeen years before the beatings.

He doesn't seem like he wants to go at it, though. He's much more collected compared to the last time I saw him—more like how he was when we first met, with a cool sense of politeness and authority, not the flustered, angry, instability.

He's been thinking. I can tell.

Folding his hands over his knees, he finally lets my notebook rest on the floor instead of his fingertips. His lips are slightly pursed, as if he doesn't really know what to say, or as if he knows what to say but doesn't know how to say it. That's fine by me. Better yet, how about if he says nothing at all? Even better better yet, how about he unlocks that fancy little door with a stupid cat flap and shows me the way out of here?

That's not going to happen, though, because his lips relax and he opens his mouth. "You have cancer."

Wow. Oh my God, I had no idea. Isn't he rude, breaking the news to me like that.

I don't reply, preferring not to discuss this shit with him. I mean, it's all right there. Right in that stupid black spiral bound. And technically, I've already told him, haven't I? Not verbally, but with words made from pencil and scratched out onto paper.

"When were you diagnosed?"

I can't help myself; I let loose a painful snort, one that makes my throat burn, but it's worth it. Haytham's mouth tilts itself into a frown. "Officially? Right when the Doc said 'Hey, sorry, but you have cancer.'"

The frown of his twists into an exasperated glower. "Enough games. Answer seri—"

"Don't pull that crap on me," I snap, interrupting him. "I'm not the one playing games. You and I both know that. Because why the hell _else_ would you care about something like this? Are you feeling a little sentimental now, Haytham? Your heart warming up a little? How _cute_."

I have more to say, I can feel it thrashing around inside of me, days of anger and frustration and paranoia and confusion that built up and wadded itself into a disgusting knot in my stomach, and I _want_ to say it, but at this moment, the tortured muscles around my gunshot wound tighten so painfully that the breath gets knocked from my lungs. Wheezing, I hunch over and squeeze my eyes shut.

"Okay, fine," I hear Haytham sigh. "I'd like to know, just out of curiosity, how long you've had cancer."

"Do you know how to read?" I rasp. The pounding in my head, which has been just white noise compared to the pounding in my leg on and off for the past few days, is getting worse. Great. Now isn't the time for another headache. But, that's not really my decision. I can feel that with the way the back of my eyes ache and the base of my skull feels like it's cracking, this one isn't backing down. "You've got my notebook, genius."

Through squinted eyes, I see him purse his lips again. I can't tell if he's getting pissed or not—the collective coolness is still settled around him like a sheet of fabric, sewn to him with unreadable emotions.

It's annoying.

A couple of seconds pass before he speaks again. "Do you need medicine?"

For the love of—

"Well, seeing as there's a hunk of metal lodged in my knee, that would be nice."

"Not for your leg," he says cooly. "For your . . . sickness."

He's gotta be kidding. Is he kidding? He has to be.

I stare at him, thinking hard through the ache in my head. He's definitely not kidding.

Maybe he's worried that I might drop dead if I don't take something. Where would he and chummy Charles be, then? A dead kid and no idea where he got their precious necklace? I swirl different answers around in my head, tasting each one to try to give the correct respond. "I did."

"Did?"

I attempt a shrug. The only thing it really gets me a sharp, stabbing pain in my knee and a good club to my head. "I'm not taking them anymore."

His eyebrows cinch downwards in confusion. He shuffles forward a little on his butt, as if I'm telling a really interesting story and he's curious to learn more. "Why?"

The pounding in my head is a numb buzz now. Not a pleasant kind of numb, though. The kind of numb that you get when your foot falls asleep and a thousand little needles prick at it nonstop. I press my palms into my eyelids in an attempt to block out the light from that dinky little light bulb.

"I don't need to anymore."

I can practically hear Haytham's eyebrows cinch down even further. "So you're not sick?"

 _God, could you just go away?_ "No. I still am."

He doesn't say anything after that. I don't bother to look up, keeping my eyes shut tight, knowing that he's still there since there's no telltale sign of the door screeching open or keys jingling. The silence in the room is so heavy I can feel it settling at the bottom of my lungs.

My palms are pushing so hard against my eyelids that colorful little blobs and shapes have started to burst behind them. I focus hard on them, trying to use them as a distraction.

It doesn't work.

"You went into White Mountain to die, didn't you? To kill yourself?"

My hands drop from their position over my eyes, and for the first time in the last five minutes, I actually look at the stranger across from me.

I know what looks different about him: he's tired. Exhausted, even. Dark circles ring the bottom of his eyes and the corners of his mouth tilt downwards with fatigue.

Why does he want this from me? What on Earth could he possibly _gain_ from it?

He knows the answer; he read my notebook. Scratched onto paper in pencil, a sentence given to me first by my body, then a monster, then a stranger, and finally, myself. He knows. So why reply?

I think long and hard. After a while, I decide to choose my words carefully.

"I'm not afraid to die."

Which is true. Back in the forest, when Lee was going all Rango at me, I wasn't . . . scared. Okay, no, that's not right. I was. I was scared.

How do I explain this?

I panicked, I was fueled and driven by confusion and adrenaline and terror, and in the moment, I was scared. Kind of hard not to be. But now, I realize I wasn't scared of the actuality of a bullet going into my brain. I was angry. I didn't want him to kill me.

 _I_ wanted to be the one to end it.

I knew what I was doing when I walked into White Mountain. I was prepared.

I was ready to go into that forest and not come out.

But then lo and behold, here came some creepy dude with a creepy mustache who pulls a gun on me and starts shooting. That was _not_ part of my plan, nor did I want it to be. Technically, if Lee followed through, the outcome of wouldn't have changed, but that wasn't the point.

I had accepted it; I'm dying.

I'm dying, and there's nothing I can do. Jack shit. Nothing I can do, but to have the final say. And three dumb jerks come along and try to take that away from me.

"Why are you asking me this?" My voice is scratchy, genuine confusion lying heavy on it.

Haytham sighs and brings a hand up. "You still don't get it, Connor." I cringe at that. I haven't heard someone say my name in three days (three days?), but even after that long, I'm not sure I'm happy hearing it. The way he says it is all wrong. _All_ wrong, laced with that same confusion and hatred and sorrow his eyes had shown on day one, when I first said it to him. It has layers underneath it, just like the ocean. Layers so thick and deep that you can't tell how many of them there are, or what exactly is swimming in them. Layers you can't see.

"I'm your father."

The first thing that happens is that the scene from Star Wars flashes in my mind. Just a quick little snippet—I can't help it.

The second thing that happens is that I start laughing so hard I think I crack a rib, which isn't good, because there's enough of me injured already. The sound is awkward and strained and bounced off the shadowed walls in a very uncomfortable way.

"No, you're not," I hiccup. He watches me with a disappointed look on his face, and I wonder how he's staying serious. "My dad was a jackass like you, but even he wouldn't stoop so low as to torturing a kid. _Or_ be affiliated with someone like Lee."

Haytham's eyes flick downwards towards the musty floor, as if he were ashamed. "I had to know that your weren't one of them."

Of course. Here we go again, with the Templar and the Assassin crap. "Look," I wheeze, "If this is some new, twisted, spazmatic trick to try and get me to confess to something I _still_ have _no_ idea about, you're really stretching it."

He shakes his head. The fatigue on his face has drooped to his shoulders now, and to straighten them, he has to sigh again and push his forehead up with a hand.

"If you could just _take_ this _seriously—_ "

"Oh, like you're taking me?"

He holds my furious gaze unflinchingly. The murky waters behind his eyes splutter and rock back and forth, waves splashing against one another, and for a moment, I think I see a break in them. A glimpse of the sandy bottom.

"You're real name is Ratonhnhaké:ton."

I feel the color drain from my face. The hostility that froze my lips into a scowl is replaced with shock that makes my mouth form a small, surprised O.

"Your mother wanted it, and I had no problem with it, as long as I could pronounce it." That ghost of a smile is back, but it's brought a deep sorrow with it. "I couldn't ever pronounce her's correctly. So I called her Ziio instead."

He got that from my notebook. He had to.

 _But my name . . . How does he know my name . . ._

"You're favorite TV show was Blues Clues, but you only watched it when we weren't reading to you." A faraway look starts to cloud his eyes, and the ghost of a smile starts to spread into a real one. "God, you loved when we read to you. You'd listen for hours just if we read the dictionary."

Something wet is pooling at the bottom of my eyes. It makes my vision blurry, contorts the man in front of me into a blob. I realize I'm shaking my head. Trying to say no, trying to stop him, but the words crumble away in my mouth, lost as soon as they breathe air.

"You never slept with the drapes closed because you loved to see the stars."

"Stop."

"You always wanted a cat, and you wanted to _name_ it Cat." He actually chuckles. "Ziio always got a kick out of that. But I hope your imagination has approved a little since then . . ."

"I said _stop_."

He falls silent, if just for a moment. That moment is all I need to finally catch my breath. It's like I just swallowed ten snakes alive, and now they're twisting around in my intestines. My cheeks are wet. "Do you really think that any of this matters?" I ask him. "At all?"

I hate how it's hard for me to get the words out. I hate how my voice cracks.

Haytham just shrugs. "I thought you should at least know."

"What, that my dad is a jackass _and_ a psychopath?" I angrily swipe the water off my cheeks with my good hand. "This only makes me hate you more, you do realize that."

My reaction obviously isn't what he wanted; he's looking at me with a patronizing kind of disappointment, the same kind he had earlier but a lot more evident. "I suppose I do." He scratches his chin thoughtfully. "But then again, at least it's all out in the clear."

I glower at him. I have so many questions I want to ask, but I want him to go away. I want him to tell me more, but I can't stomach him being in the room.

He doesn't wait for me to continue. Haytham glances away from me, tapping the cover of my notebook. "I'm actually curious to know what your mother might have said about me. I always wondered what life might have been like had she and I stayed together." The faraway look grows deeper in his eyes. "How is she, by the way?"

You've got to be kidding me. He knows I have frickin' cancer, but he doesn't know this.

"Dead," I say bluntly. "Murdered."

" _What_?" His gaze jerks back to mine, his composed character cracking for a second, but he regains it just as quickly. "I . . . I'm sorry to hear that."

I feel my heart snap.

Forgetting that there's a hunk of metal in my leg, I lean forward towards Haytham with something much more vile than hatred in my eyes. "Oh, you're _sorry_?" I put every ounce of venom I can in the words. " _I found my mother burning alive_. I'll never forget her face as she sent me away. And where were you? Running around with Templars and Assassins and whatever the hell else, looking for some stupid necklace that _we already had_?"

Suddenly, I realize something. Something that makes my blood freeze and the snakes in my intestines stop squirming.

That night. The Night of _Owise_. The note. _Three days_ , three days before the fire, three days before my mom died. I remember. I remember when I was given my necklace.

She gave it to me that night.

The memory is as clear and fresh as a newly fallen snow, stark white in my mind and as crisp as if it were something that happened yesterday. She gave it to me as a way to calm me down, to keep me safe. Something she knew I would cherish. She told me it would protect me.

I never thought she was giving it to me so I could protect it.

My mother knew she was going to die in three days.

And she knew the Templars were the ones who were going to kill her.

* * *

 **Bonjour! I hope things are going well for y'all!**

 **I promise things are going to pick up soon, my friends ;) Thank you so much for reading, and (as per usual), like, comment, follow, critique, blah blah blah blahl balhblhabhabh**

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 **Hope it was enjoyable. Stay beautiful!**

 **-TWS**


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